


A Very Long, Bad Day

by as_with_a_sunbeam



Category: 18th Century CE RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: 1792, F/M, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Philadelphia, Sickfic, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-03
Updated: 2019-06-03
Packaged: 2020-04-06 22:55:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19072354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/as_with_a_sunbeam/pseuds/as_with_a_sunbeam
Summary: Alexander has a very long, very terrible day. With a sick child, a spilled bottle of ink, a bad attack of nausea in the middle of a very official cabinet meeting, it could hardly have been worse. But the loving support of his General, his wife, and his son might just turn things around.__A sweet, fluffy hamliza sickfic





	A Very Long, Bad Day

The morning was not off to an auspicious start.

Alexander had woken up later than usual and had to rush through dressing, which wasn’t ideal on a day he had a cabinet meeting. He was still standing in the doorway of his bedroom, finishing off the knot in his cravat, when Jamie padded up to him. One look at the little boy told him he was about to be called upon to perform one of the worst of his parenting duties.

“I don’t feel good, Papa,” Jamie muttered.

“Come here, son,” he said with forced calm as he herded the boy into the room. He tried to hurry him towards the chamber pot, but it was already too late. Jamie paused at the threshold of the room, turned, and managed to throw up directly onto his father. And then he began to wail.

Alexander was still standing in place, frozen with shock, when Eliza came running in moments later. “Oh, it’s all right, baby. Come here. It’s all right,” she cooed, opening her arms. Jamie flew into her embrace, still crying.

Alexander looked down at his best suit despairingly. He was already late. Mentally running through his other available clothes, he tried to think what else would be appropriate for a meeting with President Washington.

“You’ll probably want to change, sweetheart,” Eliza commented unhelpfully. He looked up at her and glared when he saw her fighting a smirk.

“Is something about this amusing?” he snapped.

She immediately pasted on a look of faux-solemnity and shook her head. “No.”

He growled quietly and marched back to his dressing room. His blue coat would have to do, he decided. He was shrugging it on over his fresh shirt, waistcoat and breeches when he sensed eyes on him. Turning, he found Eliza watching from the doorway.

“It like this one better,” she said, eyes raking over him appreciatively.

“The gray fits better, and the material is a finer quality.”

Eliza stepped towards him and smoothed her hands over his shoulders. “Maybe. But you look good in blue.”

“Yes, well, I’m sure the President will be duly impressed.”

“Ah,” she said. “So that’s what has you in such a foul humor this morning—you have a meeting with Mr. Jefferson today.”

He very nearly snapped at her that he was not in a foul humor, before he realized just how ridiculous that was. He huffed a small laugh; somehow, she could always drive him from his black moods. “I’m sorry. Is Jamie all right?”

“I think so. I tucked him back into bed. He’s asking for you, though. Would you look in on him before you leave?”

“Of course.” His custom was to stay with the children when they were unwell. Unfortunately, with his current workload, he simply couldn’t take a day off.

“How are you feeling, my little lamb?” he asked as he stepped into the boys’ room a few minutes later. He sat on the bed, and Jamie clambered straight into his lap.

“Sing, Papa,” the boy demanded.

Alexander smiled and started to sing his son’s favorite lullaby, rocking him gently. He repeated it again, and then again. Still, Jamie’s dark eyes stayed stubbornly open, staring at him. “I need to go to work now, my dear fellow. Mama’s going to sit with you, all right?” he said finally, kissing the boy’s sweaty brow.

“No!” Jamie cried, gripping him tightly. “I want you!”

“Sweetheart,” Eliza tried to soothe him, running her hand over Jamie’s back. He jerked away from her violently, scrambling to hang on to his father.

“No! I want Papa! Papa!” he howled.

“Just go, honey,” Eliza whispered after several more minutes of this. “Don’t worry. I’ll calm him down.”

He left the house to the sounds of his little son screaming for him.

**

He was mopping up an entire bottle’s worth of ink from his lap when Oliver Wolcott knocked on his door two hours later. His luck didn’t seem to be improving. Thankfully, the ink stain wouldn’t show on his black breeches, though he had no doubt the ink had leaked through to stain his white shirt and likely his skin as well. The papers he’d been pouring over all morning were entirely ruined.

“You seem to be having a difficult day, Mr. Secretary,” Wolcott said diplomatically.

He had to deliberately swallow down the urge to whimper in response. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, I am.”

Wolcott smiled at him. “Well, perhaps I can improve it somewhat. My darling wife delivered some fresh cherry tarts to my office. Knowing your particular liking for cherries, I thought I’d bring you one.”

Wolcott held out a small tea plate bearing a good sized pastry. What appeared to be perfectly baked, golden-brown, flaky crust was broken only by the red dot of cherry jam in the center. On any other day the offer would have placed him a such a good mood that even Thomas Jefferson could not have ruined it.

However, as he looked at that delectable treat, he felt his stomach turn, nausea surging forth from nowhere. He squeezed his eyes shut, and didn’t bother fighting his urge to whimper this time.

**

Alexander’s stomach lurched sourly. The close, hot air of the President’s office was doing little to aid the nausea that had been plaguing him for hours. The sensation was coming in waves, receding to the back of his mind and then rearing up all the worse minutes later, leaving him sweating and pale.

“How can we turn our backs on our greatest ally?” Jefferson fired out, sitting forward in his chair. “Why should we hesitate in helping our friends to preserve a relationship with a country that treated us so terribly? That uses us abysmally, even now?”

The nausea was surging up again. He could feel saliva pooling in his mouth as he forced himself to take deep, even breaths. His hand rose to cover his mouth, as though blocking the exit would keep his stomach where it was supposed to be.

“England is our most important trade partner, Mr. Jefferson. And courting a war with her not a decade after the last would not be wise,” Washington said calmly.

Alexander found himself glad that the president was of one mind with him on this. If he’d had to open his mouth to voice the same thought, he wasn’t entirely sure what would have come out. He adjusted uncomfortably in his seat and wished he were anywhere else.

“Trade partner,” Jefferson scoffed. “When they aren’t simply seizing our goods and our men. Is anything being done to counteract that?”

Both men turned to look at him. That was unfortunate. He’d managed to skirt the past half hour without saying anything. His stomach lurched again. Keeping his mouth covered with his palm, he nodded his head vaguely. “Yes.”

“Oh, well, good then,” Jefferson rolled his eyes, sitting back in his chair regally.

For a moment, Alexander imagined leaning forward and losing his stomach right on Jefferson’s shoes. The satisfaction would _almost_ be worth the humiliation.

“Mr. Hamilton, what are your thoughts on this?” Washington was scrutinizing him now.

For one glorious moment, he thought the nausea was ebbing. If he could answer Washington now, he may get through the rest of the meeting without embarrassing himself. He moved his hand, opened his mouth, and then felt his stomach rising at the back of his throat.

He swallowed convulsively and stood.

“Excuse me,” he managed to mutter before swiftly fleeing the office, bursting through the front doors and throwing himself into the nearest side alley.

He gagged and coughed and choked for several horrible minutes. The stress on his body forced tears into his eyes, and he was barely holding himself up against the rough brick of the government building. Where was it even coming from? He hadn’t eaten all day.

A hand on his back caused him to tense painfully. He couldn’t turn his head to look at his new companion, so he opted to keep his head down and pray that it was a ruffian here to end his misery with a knife to the chest. As he sagged down towards his own puddle of sick, strong hands took his weight, holding him up.

“Just breathe. You’re all right, son.” A calm, soothing tone from a gruff, commanding voice.

Squeezing his eyes closed, Alexander prayed for the earth to open up and swallow him.

God did not comply.

“You could have mentioned you were unwell, my boy. Although the look on Mr. Jefferson’s face when he realized how close you’d come to vomiting on him was rather priceless.”

Alexander choked on a laugh, dry heaved, then pushed himself up so he could lean against the wall. Washington’s hand was still on his shoulder.

“My apologies, sir,” he managed.

Washington shook his head, hushing him. His free hand rose to touch his forehead, testing for fever. “Just relax, son. Take a moment.”

“I feel a little better now, sir, truly.”

Washington nodded. “You don’t feel warm, just a tad clammy. You should go home and get some rest.”

“I’m sure I’ll be better presently. I wouldn’t want to worry Eliza.” She would worry if he turned up in the middle of the day feeling ill. With five children to look after and Jamie ill as well, she had her hands full enough as it was.

“I say let Mrs. Hamilton fuss over you a bit,” Washington said, his lip twitching upwards. “It would do you a world of good.”

“But sir, the meeting—”

Washington waved a hand dismissively. “We’ll reconvene later, when you’re well. Go home, son.”

His cheeks reddened even more, and he opened his mouth to argue again.

With a voice full of fatherly fondness, Washington insisted, “Go home.”

**

“You’re home early,” Eliza commented when he walked through the door. She came through to the foyer from the parlor where she had been overseeing Angelica’s piano practice, if his daughter’s repetitive scales were anything to go by.

He walked straight to her and wrapped her in a tight embrace. She returned it easily, rubbing his back gently. After a few silent moments, she asked, “What’s wrong?”

“Bad day,” he muttered. “I vomited. In front of President Washington.”

“What?”

“I vomited in front of the President. I almost vomited _on_ the Secretary of State. And I was too nauseated to eat a cherry tart that was Wolcott delivered to my office.”

Eliza gave a snort, and he felt her begin to shake with laughter in his arms.

He pulled away from her and whined, “It’s not funny.”

“It’s not,” she agreed, still laughing. “Especially not the fact that you sound the most distressed about the cherry tart.”

He felt himself beginning to smile despite himself, and a laugh bubbled up a moment later.

Her laughter died down after a moment, and she caressed his cheek with a fond expression. “My poor darling. Are you still feeling unwell?”

“Less so than earlier. I’m still a little queasy,” he admitted.

She kissed his cheek. “Let’s get you into bed, then, shall we?”

As she ushered him upstairs, he turned his head to ask, “Is Jamie feeling better?”

She nodded. “He hasn’t been sick again, and he hasn’t felt warm at all. I think he’ll be fine by tomorrow.”

Alexander smiled at the first good news he’d heard today. He stopped into the boys’ room when he made it upstairs. Jamie was sitting up in bed with a picture book in his lap, and his little eyes went wide with delight when he saw his father walk in. “Papa!”

He bent down to pick up the little boy, who clung around his neck like a monkey. “Would you like to come rest in my bed for a little while?”

Jamie nodded enthusiastically.

Eliza rubbed the boy’s back to get his attention. “You must be very well behaved, sweetheart. Papa feels ill today, too.”  

“You do?” Jamie asked, looking up at him with surprise.

He nodded.

“I’ll take care of you, Papa,” Jamie announced, clinging to him with renewed force.

Alexander smiled. “You will?”

Jamie nodded against him.

“Well, then, I’m sure to be better in no time.”

He moved into his bedroom and placed his son on the bed, then went into his closet to change. The bottom of the shirt was stained a deep black from the accident with the ink earlier, and sure enough his legs had large black streaks across them. He used the ruined shirt to wipe the worst of the stain away, although he’d need a thorough scrub to remove the ink entirely. Later, he promised himself.

Eliza peeked her head in as he was pulling on his night shirt and laughed at him again when she saw his legs. “How did you even do that?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” he shrugged helplessly. “It was just a very long, bad day.”

She leaned in to kiss him and then urged him to get into bed. “I need to check on the boys, but then I’ll bring you up some tea. Would you like a book to read?”

He named a title he’d been reading when time allowed, and Eliza promised to bring it up for him. Jamie was already nodding off as Alexander settled down under the covers and wrapped his arms around his little boy. Jamie snuggled up against him.

He closed his eyes, dozing lightly.

Perhaps it wasn’t such a bad day after all.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this awhile ago and re-discovered it sitting in my drafts, so I decided to clean it up a little and post it. I really like Washington featuring as a concerned, caring dad, and that Eliza can tease Ham out of his bad mood. 
> 
> Thanks so much for reading! Hope you enjoyed! Feedback always brightens my day!! :)


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